


A Taste of Flesh

by cheshirecatstrut



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Explosions, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Wackiness, general mayhem
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 20:31:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15299460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirecatstrut/pseuds/cheshirecatstrut
Summary: Logan and Veronica decide to have the wedding in Vegas, for sentimental reasons. Things go off the rails more than even they thought possible.A sequel to Little Red.





	A Taste of Flesh

_All wolves are not of the same sort; there is one kind with an amenable disposition – neither noisy, nor hateful, nor angry, but tame, obliging and gentle, following the young maids in the streets, even into their homes. Alas! Who does not know that these gentle wolves are of all such creatures the most dangerous!_

_\--Charles Perrault_

_The wolf is carnivore incarnate and he's as cunning as he is ferocious; once he's had a taste of flesh then nothing else will do._

_\--Angela Carter_

XXXXX

It’s hot. It’s SO hot. Logan’s lying by the Palazzo’s pool under an artificial mister, at two AM in Vegas; he’s wearing nothing but swim trunks and STILL dripping sweat. They rented out a whole FLOOR of this stupid hotel, at considerable expense, to house the family wedding party, because nothing’s too good for his blushing bride-to-be. But an hour ago the power went out, and since then his suite’s been a fucking oven.

He arches his neck and takes a long swallow of iced bourbon, trying to passively accept the swelter, since a dip in the tepid water helped none. Gazes out over the mostly-neon strip, visible in gaps between palm trees and fake Greek monuments. Reflects that maybe summer in Nevada isn’t the best time to stage elaborate ceremonies, nostalgia factor be damned.

“So this is where you went,” a sleep-husky voice murmurs behind him, and he smiles without moving as Veronica circles the beige lounger. She sits beside him, and he curls a slightly possessive hand around her bare thigh. His gaze travels up her red-bikini-clad curves to her sweet, drowsy face. “Figured if you woke up in the sixth circle of hell like I did, you’d instinctively run towards water…and it looks like I was right.”

“Is that the level with the burning sand?” He traces fingertips along the inside of her leg, hooks them beneath the strap at her hip, intrigued by the fact that it seems to fasten with a snap. “Because if so, how intellectual of you, and also how wildly appropriate.”

“That’s me,” she says, with a trace of humor, watching as he tugs until the snap unfastens and traces the pink-indented skin beneath. “The intellectual getting married in Vegas to the biggest wolf I know.”

“Once you stray from the path you never go back, baby.” He sits up to better investigate the top’s construction. Undoes one of the shoulder straps, which flops sideways, taking the edge of the triangular cup with it. Looks up at her from beneath his lashes while he unsnaps the other side. “Having second thoughts about your choices?”

“Well, your interest in the first of my honeymoon suits tells me my shopping instincts are solid.” She leans lazily back on her hands to watch him free the other hip. “But we’re not at the Tuscan vacation villa yet. Are you sure someone won’t come?”

“I’m pretty confident you will.” He meets her eyes with a slight smile before transferring his gaze back to the slack bikini bottoms, which he peels carefully from his target before tossing them aside. The rippling light of pool-reflected Tiki lamps plays in stripes across her skin, faintly gilding the hair between her legs; he lifts her onto the adjoining lounger so he can see better before undoing the snap between her breasts. “But if you want, we can bet on just how long I draw the process out. I have it on good authority gambling’s legal, here.”

“Subtract five minutes for the kink factor from your estimate, and two more for all these sweaty abs.” She curls his fingertips in the hair on his chest as he shifts to sit at the lounger’s edge. Rests a foot on either side of his hips and draws her nails slowly downwards. “Then subtract every other minute except maybe two, because I recognize that look in your eyes.”

He kisses her chin, gentle press of lips, and she sighs, lashes fluttering as she fights to keep her eyes open. Her hands curve, within his trunks, around his cock. She begins to stroke and tug as he kisses behind her ear, and he murmurs, “Know what my third favorite thing about you is, pumpkin? Your never-fading enthusiasm.”

Gently disentangling himself, he checks surreptitiously for watchers while shucking the trunks, reseats himself at her feet. Kisses the inside of her knee, then licks into the treat he’s been denied all day, while playing tour guide for all her weird-ass uncles. She tastes hot and sweet, with a faint edge of coconut suntan oil, and her sweaty legs slide satisfyingly against his shoulders as she curls them around his neck.

Her clit’s already engorged—she wasn’t kidding about the kink factor—so he sucks it gently, fingertips feathering the crease between her cheeks. Licks harder as she begins to writhe and gush, penetrating her ass slowly with his thumb…smiles when this immediately does the trick. She moans and contracts, gripping handfuls of his hair, and he fucks her with tongue and fingers as she rides out the wave. Rises up on his elbows over her while she sprawls in the lounger and pants, then pushes carefully inside.

She makes a soft sound of pleasure as he takes his time with the first thrust; it’s always a symphony of gasps and sighs, when she shows vocal appreciation of his dick. He wishes he could use the vibrator on her first, because he REALLY enjoys watching her make those noises while she takes it. But it’s upstairs in the oven, packed neatly in her suitcase. And her sweet, inviting pussy’s ALMOST too tight, which predictably shuts down his brain.

He fucks her as gently as he can manage, given the urgency he feels, watching her breasts shiver each time he bottoms out, her pretty mouth wide in a soundless O. “God, I love you,” he says as she digs her nails into his biceps and comes again, furiously. “You look so adorable and act so bent, the contradiction is…”

Hooking a leg behind his knees she twists and flips them, almost upending the lounger in her hurry to put herself on top; proceeds to ride him fast and hard, rubbing her own clit like no amount of orgasms is sufficient. Her nipples are knots, her hair’s flying everywhere, and after two seconds of this visual he has to squeeze his eyes shut and come, just to protect his anatomy from explosion.

The orgasm hits hard--feels like he exploded anyway--and the aftermath rings in his ears like actual noise. There’s an acrid smell, too, firepit-smoky. As soon as he can make his mouth form words he says, “Jesus, Veronica, it’s like all that heat and friction between us literally created fire.”

“Are you talking?” She lifts only her face from her boneless sprawl atop his chest, surveys him blearily. “How can you be verbal already, I’m barely…SHIT!”

Her eyes widen as she sits up enough to see over the back of the lounger; she extricates herself from his still half-hard dick with a twist and climbs off. “Logan, it’s that weird orange hotel across the street!” Grabbing his t-shirt up from the cement beside him, she dons it inside-out. “Put on your PANTS!”

He collects his trunks and obeys, turning just as a plume of black smoke spews from the upper windows of Treasure Island. Says, “Holy SHIT!” because it wasn’t just them, combusting. Then grabs her arm as panicked people start streaming from the strangely-shuddering, v-shaped hi-rise.

“It’s going to blow.” She locates her swimsuit bottoms and snaps them closed over her hips. “We have to check Dad. We have to find GRANDMA!”

“We should get inside,” Logan corrects, tugging her backwards as the upper left corner of the hotel crumbles. Flames begin shooting out the hole. “We’re totally exposed, we’ll get nailed by any shrapnel. Veronica, baby, RUN!”

He leads her at a sprint past the Palazzo’s two pools, towards the massive gold-painted pavilion standing guard over one end. Dragging her through a side door into a windowless service hallway, he slams the thing quickly shut on a huge sonic boom. Flinches, instinctively covering her with his torso, as high-velocity projectiles strike the building. Sighs when they cease, slumps back against the wall.

And stares at five machine-gun-wielding guys in skeleton costumes, clustered around a masked dude holding a detonator. They stare threateningly back.

**Author's Note:**

> I did not mean to start another WIP folks, cross my heart. But I tried writing a one-shot for the Smutathon and it turned into this. So, you know, NO RAGRETS, and I hope y'all enjoy what's shaping up to be a very R-rated, completely batshit story.


End file.
